


Luthien

by almost_teacup



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celebrian and Elrond, F/M, First Meeting, Fluff, Humor, Lothlórien, Slight fluff, Trees, slight crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11679402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almost_teacup/pseuds/almost_teacup
Summary: When a young Celebrian falls out of a tree in Lothlorien and meets Elrond, Elrond is immediately taken with her. She is not so immediately taken with him.





	Luthien

She shouted when she saw the riders from a treetop, using a certain loud cry that her mother first taught her when she was little. It had something to do with bringing the sound into all her veins, and then letting it go at once in a series of whooping shouts that could be heard from anywhere in—well, a rather sizable radius. It could mean a greeting to strangers, it could be a search-cry, and if she added a series of things, it would become a battle-call for aid. She didn’t think, as she began to climb down, that she would come to that, but it was nice to know she could.

This was just a reminder and warning that the grove called Lothlorien was inhabited, and that she wouldn’t back down if it came to a fight. 

She lowered herself a little more.

The riders below her certainly weren’t orcs, she’d known that within a minute. Now she could see they looked elven. By all the Valar—she shouldn’t swear, but these weren’t just elves, these were High elves, her mother’s kindred. 

What she had just done probably violated about ten different kinds of decorum. Bri laughed in the face of decorum, she liked to think — the trouble was, she didn’t laugh so easily in the face of an angry Galadriel. 

Such shouts as she had just made were heard throughout the Woodland realm, each with a different meaning, and nobody batted an eye. It was how she and her Sindarin kindred found one another on dark days when she visited Mirkwood. This was how Galadriel herself found people, when she wasn’t distracted by the idea of being regal. Bri thought in more private moments that the idea of being regal was rather too present in her mother’s mind. But when it wasn’t, she’d call up, and it would carry through the tree-branches like a sort of alarm system. Bri, or her father, or Haldir, or whoever else just had to follow the sound, and there would be Galadriel, in need of some information or someone’s whereabouts.

But she was pretty sure she’d scared some of these riders. Not their leaders, but a few of their company at least were frightened. 

A more rebellious part of her laughed, and said, _so be it._ It was the strangers’ own trouble if Bri frightened them. Their over-formal customs might keep them stiff and silent, attached as they were to the fact that their kindred came from the West—and they had to learn that not every noise, every rattling to their ways meant a threat. 

She cried again, and this call meant _newcomers. They’re here._

Her voice was sharp and clear and unrestrained, just like Galadriel’s. And while her father had taught her to climb, and fight, and sing, Galadriel had given her in inheritance the slight wildness in her eyes and told her to cultivate it. And so, together, they encouraged her to do this, to keep watch with the birds in high places.

This time, the man at the front of the stiff-seeming company gazed up in alarm. He’d been so stoic, unreactive to her first call. His face did not disappoint, so utterly in keeping as it was with the rest of him. He had a look about him that suggested he generally lived in a library and left it only with greatest reluctance. 

She could almost hear him saying _what was that?_ and see him looking around, eyes darting. 

_What was that?_ Now that their leader was unsettled, the question echoed among the riders. _Does this mean danger?_

A childish (and frankly Finwion) part of her wanted to say that this was danger, that she was danger, and they’d better remember it. Some combative edge to her, a shoot planted and watered in her by Galadriel, wanted to prove herself as danger. She quelled it, and lowered until she was at a reasonable height, finally dropping a little ways in front of them. 

“What the—by Elbereth, what is this?” The leader stopped his horse first, his severe eyes assessing her with more judgement than words could express. He didn’t seem intimidated, just—struck. By what, she couldn’t tell. 

And now, it was time to change her tactics. She curtsied. This was a game, after all. She’d admit it, though they didn’t know it. Maybe she’d spent too much time around Thranduil — but she liked to unsettle the unsuspecting. And then resettle them. And then maybe, just for fun, unnerve them again. 

“My lords, I am Lady Celebrian Celebornion, and provided you mean us no harm, I welcome you to Lothlorien.” 

“Provided we— _provided—”_ One of the men near the front of the company stuttered, still regarding her terribly coldly. She almost laughed. 

“Peace, Erestor,” said the leader quietly. “The lady did not wish to insult.”

She was almost angry that he had not given her leave to speak for herself. 

“I apologize if I’ve offended you, but one cannot be too cautious among the trees. I can see now that you’re of my mother’s people.” She smiled. “Come, we—” Bri thought for a second, “I’ll call for my Lady Mother. She can show you in properly.”

She cupped her hands around her mouth, filled her lungs, and finally cried out, “ _Galadriel!—ai—Naneth!_ ” Galadriel appeared a moment later, silently and gracefully, with Celeborn at her side to welcome them properly. 

Galadriel shot a glance at Bri that said, _you will not do that again._

Celeborn was holding back laughter, though, she could tell, and that almost made up for her mother’s disapproval.

—-

The young (he would hazard to say barely-fifty) woman who had issued unearthly shouts and appeared from the branches was the image of Celeborn. She was smaller and more slight, but possessed of the same silver hair, regal bearing, and dark eyes. Then again, there was a stillness about Celeborn that she didn’t have in any measure. 

_Celebrian Celebornion._ She said the name so proudly and lightly after her bizarre entrance that he almost found it funny, and then almost wondered if her entrance into their midst was normal by her standards.

Well, some of Finwë’s house was mad, though he never thought Finarfin’s line had the persuasion to it. 

She was like a fountain in sunlight, even next to her thoroughly stately parents, standing a little apart from them, sure of herself in her own way. Unlike her parents, certainly unlike himself, her fëa was written on her face, and he could see she felt contempt for him, though he could not think of a single reason that would be so. 

She was the most beautiful woman — being, really — sight, in fact, barring none — that he had ever encountered. Had the fortune and misfortune to encounter. For she was lovely, and she already disliked him. 

Celeborn had gone with most of his company to show them to a place of rest, while he and Erestor were left with Galadriel to converse. Celebrian walked with them in only the most technical sense. She was elsewhere in mind, though she nodded in agreement at the right points during Erestor’s tales of Imladris and their travels. He could not take his eyes off her. 

He had heard more men than he could count say that the women they found beautiful were “like Luthien.” They were all like Luthien. It was amazing how much they did not see. Everyone from Elros’s first crush when they were young (tall, dark, quiet) to Thranduil’s wife (little, blond, elegant) — even the ones who couldn’t carry a tune, the ones who were blatant warriors or lacking in grace, the ones who preferred smithcraft to dancing — all were compared to Luthien by those who would love them.

It was a high praise, one he himself had given at times, and one he could not see in her. Luthien was what every elf-maiden thought she should be: fair of voice and face, graceful, with delicate strength, a warrior when she had to be, and above all beautiful — she was like starlit silver butterfly. Which was a fine thing, but she was the butterfly that _everyone aspired to become._ And where one such creature is lovely, a hundred are concerning, and a whole flock of them is just ridiculous.

This woman was absolutely nothing like the maiden of song. He could, and would, make no such comparison. 

—-

The subject of Luthien came up again at dinner. One of the newcomers, apparently convinced that he could impress her, greeted her at the door to the dining room with a cliche: “my lady, your eyes shine like Luthien’s, and you are as fair as she.” 

Bri lowered her eyes and thanked him, trying to hold back her laughter. Her head was spinning between _really?_ and _what are you smoking?_ regarding the empty flattery. This was the sort of thing people said to her, being the daughter of a—well, what amounted to a queen. It wasn't because they found her similar to the woman of legend. They just wanted to get into her family's good graces. What with her light hair and eyes, and the fact that she was neither tall nor thin, she could not find any other way to understand the comparison. 

The man looked at her expectantly, apparently assuming she should say something more, and then went to speak with someone else. She supposed she hadn’t had the proper reaction. What was the proper reaction to being flattered with such a statement, one that was meant to be kind but was completely unfitting? She was reflecting on this, and the general nonsense of it, when she felt someone coming to stand next to her. 

“When you dropped out of that tree to attack me, you looked quite like Luthien upon meeting her love.” Elrond told her quietly. Well that was different. Perhaps he wasn't as stuffy as she'd thought, and she might find a friend in him after all. 

“And when you almost drew your sword in response, I’m sure you were the picture of Beren.” She tried to say this with a straight face, and failed entirely. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I wouldn’t mean to trouble—”

She laughed. “How very polite. But the fact is, I need one. Care to come with me?”

She led him from the room. 

“So when you aren’t dropping out of trees on unaware travelers, what do you do?” he asked as he followed her through a maze of halls to what appeared to be a small kitchen. It was in the very center of a huge tree, hidden away from public access. Celebrian knew that no one would find her here unless she led them, and she wanted to be a ways from strangers at the moment. Her parents' dinners never suited her. If she could escape them, even for a moment, she liked to do so.  

She began retrieving glasses and pouring something that looked strangely unlike any wine Elrond had encountered. It must be some new invention, or a strange Sindarin tradition, or something. Ah, well. In the end, wine was wine.

“I’ve been working in the houses of Healing for a while now. I have much to learn, but I find it’s the best way to make myself useful.” She gave him a small glass, then hopped up to sit on the kitchen counter. “My mother meant to teach me to be a warrior, I think. It doesn’t suit me as it does her. Unless, of course, I’m frightening strangers.”

He smiled, then gave a thoughtful nod. “I understand that. My brother was the great leader. I was always happier in a library—or healing.”

She laughed. So she’d been right, he was a librarian. And a healer. And capable of making jokes about her least favorite subject: comparisons to Luthien. He was, on closer look, rather attractive, too. By all the—no swearing, she reminded herself. Her mother was always adamant that no matter what words left her mouth, she should never say _by_ anything or anybody. Not even Elbereth, who was considered relatively merciful. Perhaps _damn it_ was the right phrase.

She was brought back to the world by a very startled sputtering. 

“This—is not wine—my lady—” he coughed. She squinted at him. How he thought the concentrated amber liquid she’d poured him, which smelled and looked completely unlike any other drink, was wine? 

“No,” she drew out the word curiously. “That it isn’t.”

“Well what _is_ it?” He was still coughing, a situation he tried to remedy by drinking more of the stuff. It didn’t work very well.

“An invention of Thranduil’s, here—” she found a bottle of water and handed it to him.

“This is something Thranduil would come up with,” he said when he’d regained his voice. And then, “It’s rather good. Thank you, my lady.”

“We are past that, I hope. You’d be welcome to call me Celebrian.”

“Celebrian,” he tested the name, and smiled. “Shall we return?”

“Yes, they’re probably starting dinner. Or dancing, or something.”

“Do you dance?”

She thought for a moment.

“Truly? I am about as much like Luthien in that respect as I am in all the others.”


End file.
